


Rogue and the Knight

by thewitch0fthewilds (gossamerstarsxx)



Series: Not With Haste [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Lavellan, Author Knows Nothing About Sparring, Awkward Cullen, Awkward Cullen Rutherford, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Inquisitor, Drunk Inquisitor, F/M, Grumpy Inquisitor (Dragon Age), I Don't Know How To Flirt With Him So Now He Must Die, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Inquisitor Being an Asshole, Iron Bull is a Good Friend, Pre-Relationship, Sera Being Sera, Sparring, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 19:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13665987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerstarsxx/pseuds/thewitch0fthewilds
Summary: “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, exactly,” Varric says, “But Curly’s not gonna do you wrong, Raven. Lying, cheating, tricks, dirty fighting, below the belt...not really his thing.”No. But it’s mine.





	Rogue and the Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Aislin really, _really_ does not handle her emotions well.
> 
> This has been sitting in my docs for well over a year now, so I finally decided to clean it up and post it. I apologize if it ends up fitting into the Dorian-as-gay-bff trope. Aislin and Dorian do have a very complex and interesting (to me, anyway) relationship of their own, but the details of it don't really come into play here. I also know literally nothing about any kind of sparring, so if you're some kind of combat expert, you're probably not going to like this much.
> 
> Inquisitor is [Aislin Lavellan](http://saiyanshewolf.tumblr.com/tagged/my+inquisitor)

# 1.

 _“Must_ you brood so?”

Aislin barely glances at Dorian as he drops into the seat across from her with a wooden mug of ale in his hand.

“This place is dreary enough already,” he continues, “No one needs to walk in and see Andraste’s chosen one scowling in a corner as well.”

Aislin snorts in disdain, reaching for her own mug.

“You sound like Vivienne,” she mutters. “And if your Andraste has indeed chosen me she has chosen badly.”

Varric slides onto the bench next to her as she swallows another mouthful of the bitter brew the shems call ale. He takes a sip of his own drink, hiding a smirk as Aislin makes a sour face.

“Yes, that kind of talk’s _sure_ to keep morale up,” he says. “And here I thought Fenris was a broody drunk.”

Aislin scowls. She leans forward with her elbows on the table and cradles her aching head in her hands.

“So what if I _am_ drunk?” she asks, speaking to no one in particular as she glares down at the rough-hewn wooden surface.

“You’re supposed to get drunk to have _fun!"_

Aislin’s eyebrow twitches as Sera flops down at the head of the table with her own mug.

“But _you’re_ all mopey,” Sera adds, frowning over the edge of her drink. “Thought maybe you’d loosen up a bit.”

Bull lowers himself carefully onto the wooden bench next to Dorian with a sigh, as if he can sense that Aislin is in no mood.

“Not everyone can be a fun drunk, Sera,” he rumbles. “Leave it.”

Sera takes a long swallow of her drink and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.

“Dalish thing, innit?” she asks, propping her chin in one hand. “Bet _you_ lot are fun at parties.”

Aislin lifts her head and cuts bleary green eyes toward Sera. Her crooked nose crinkles with the hint of a sneer.

“Oh, yes.” Her voice is flat, toneless. “We Dalish love drinking ourselves stupid and wallowing in our misery. Almost as much as we love stealing human babies and using them for blood magic.”

Sera narrows her eyes. “You’re doin’ that thing. The one I don’t like.”

“Which thing?” Aislin asks. “Breathing or being Dalish?”

“Bein’ a _bitch._ ”

Aislin cannot argue with that. The corner of her mouth twitches into the shadow of a smirk. “So, breathing.”

Bull, Dorian, and Sera all snort into their mugs, clearly taken aback; Sera herself actually chokes and begins to cough until Bull reaches over and smacks her between the shoulder blades with one massive hand.

“I _do_ like it when you drink,” Dorian remarks as he smooths the ale out of his mustache. “You develop a sense of humor.”

Varric grins, his eyes shining with amusement. “Raven always has a sense of humor, Sparkler. The desiccated corpse of one, at any rate. Drinking just makes it more...animated.”

Aislin takes another swallow of her drink.

“I don't know what you two are talking about,”  she mumbles as her expression contorts into disgust. “I am _hilarious_.”

“Currently, yes,” Dorian allows. “But you certainly were not laughing when we came in, so _what_ has you so distraught that you resort to day drinking?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Aislin cradles her forehead in one hand and closes her eyes. The tavern is beginning to feel a little...spinny.

“Humor us,” Varric says. “I don’t know about you, but I’d _love_ to talk about shit that doesn’t matter. Instead of, you know, the creepy glowing hole in the world that spits out demons.”

_Demons._

Aislin shifts her head into both her hands, once again glaring down at the table as if it has done her some grievous insult.

 _I wanted to stop thinking about him._ She grits her teeth. _Now I’m just thinking about him while I have a headache._

Her preoccupation with Cullen terrifies her. Since the night of the snowstorm he has never been far from her thoughts. As if that is not bad enough, lately she has been catching herself staring; when she leaves the gates of Haven early in the morning Cullen is always pacing amongst the recruits, and the sunlight turns his hair to gold -

 _“Fenedhis!”_ Aislin leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t trust him. I won’t.”

“Trust _who?”_ Sera asks.

Aislin’s eyes grow wide. _Shit. I said that out loud._

“None of your concern,” she snaps. It comes out more sharply than she intends, but Sera only sighs and blows her bangs out of her eyes.

“She’s doin’ that other thing now.”

Varric cocks an eyebrow. “You mean the thing where she’s rude to everyone so they’ll leave her alone?”

Aislin leans forward and picks up her mug with a scowl. “Pity that it isn’t working.”

“And there she goes again.” Sera scowls back, pointing at Aislin over the top of her drink. “I get it, you know. The hidin’ behind bein’ a bitch thing. I get it and it’s _rubbish_.”

 _“Dhava ‘ma masa,”_ Aislin mutters, and immediately wishes that she hadn’t spoken. Never mind that Sera has no idea what the words mean; her nose wrinkles into a sneer as she glowers at Aislin across the table.

“Listen, Your _Elfiness_ ,” she sneers, pointing at Aislin once more, “I get you’re panicky ‘cause you’ve gone and got your bits all tingly over a human like Cullen, but you don’t get to take that out on us, yeah? We _want_ to be _nice_ to you!”

“Cuts right to the chase, doesn’t she?” Dorian mutters under his breath.

Aislin glares down into her drink, swirling the liquid. She contemplates throwing it in Sera’s face. After a beat of silence she abruptly tips it up instead.

She empties the mug, leans forward against the table, and drops it with a soft _thump._ The ale swims in her head, tangling with the incessant thoughts of his hair in the sun, his voice when he said her name in the snow, the fire in his eyes as he tore through the throat of a fully grown bear -

Aislin reaches back and grabs one of her daggers, needing to keep her hands busy before she begins to tear her own hair out in frustration. She twirls the blade in her fingers, heedless of how menacing the gesture appears; as far as she is concerned it is nothing but an old, absent habit that soothes her nerves somewhat.

“I don’t trust him,” she says again, and this time she does not even care that she has spoken aloud.

Varric bursts into laughter.

“Curly?” he says, incredulous. “You’re _serious?"_

Aislin turns to look at him, her dagger still dancing between her fingers. “Do I look like I’m making a joke?”

“Honestly?” He grins at her. “Your jokes are so dry I’d never be able to tell.”

“She _must_ be,” Dorian says, baffled. “Aislin, don’t be ridiculous. I doubt that man has a deceptive bone in his body.”

Aislin cuts her eyes toward Varric again.

“You knew him,” she says. The words come out like an accusation. Varric eyes the dagger as if he is trying to decide whether he ought to back away slowly, the way one back down from a dangerous wild animal.

“Yeah, I knew him,” Varric admits at length, apparently having decided that he is in no immediate danger. “But we weren’t exactly bosom friends, Raven.”

“Of course not.” She tosses her dagger up, catches it in a reverse grip, and immediately begins to twirl it again, trying to think.

“Shem. Templar.” Her nose wrinkles. She stops spinning her weapon and cradles it in one hand instead, absently brushing the pad of her thumb over the blade.

“Aislin,” Dorian sighs. “You _do_ know that you never call _me_ shem, don’t you?”

Aislin glances up at him. “What?”

“You never call me shem,” Dorian repeats. “Or Blackwall either, for that matter...or Cassandra, or Sister Nightingale, or Josephine. You seem to reserve that particular honor for the Commander alone.”

Aislin struggles to conceal her surprise behind the dull anger that consumes her.

“So?” She continues stroking the blade of her dagger. “Would you like me to start, _‘Vint?”_

Dorian huffs, giving Bull a dirty sidelong glance. “She learned that from _you_.”

“Probably.” Bull takes a long swallow of his drink. He stares over the heads of everyone else at the table, clearly lost in thought.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says at length, breaking the tense silence as he looks down at Aislin. “Cullen would probably lie to protect lives, but he’d be bad at it. And I don’t mean the Templars trained it out of him, either. Just isn’t built that way. And even if he _were_ capable of it, he has nothing to gain from lying to you or betraying you.”

“See? Listen to the Ben-Hassrath,” Varric says.

“So you agree?” Aislin asks.

Varric heaves a sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“Listen, Raven,” he says. “There were plenty of times back in Kirkwall where Curly was...not on our side, so to speak. He was a Templar and I ran around with two apostates. Three, to start with. Not to mention that Hawke more or less dedicated himself to being a pain in the Chantry’s ass. All I can tell you is that when it came down to it, Cullen defied his own Knight-Commander to do what he thought was right. He had our backs.”

Aislin bites the inside of her lip as she looks down at Varric. She _wants_ to believe him, but the idea that she _can_ trust Cullen is almost as terrifying as the idea that she can’t.

Varric puts a tentative hand on her shoulder, as if he senses her frustration but expects to be shrugged off; Aislin bites the inside of her lip even harder, this time to keep it from trembling.

She does not shrug him off. She sets her dagger on the table and leans forward on her elbows, covering her face with her hands.

“I don’t know what you’re afraid of, exactly,” Varric says, “But Curly’s not gonna do you wrong, Raven. Lying, cheating, tricks, dirty fighting, below the belt...not really his thing.”

_No. But it’s mine._

The first stirrings of a plan begin to take shape in her mind.

“He’d rather arrange a duel at sunrise, or something else that reeks of honor,” Varric adds, and Aislin - to her own surprise - giggles into her hands.

_Honorable, is he?_

“Varric’s right,” Sera remarks. “Jackboot knight, that one. Honest all the way down to his arsehole.”

This time Aislin snorts laughter.

_We’ll see what his honor gets him._

“Indelicate, but not inaccurate.” Varric pats her on the back a few times as she sits up and tries to compose herself. “Cullen’s honorable the whole way through, Raven, or does the best he can to be. Can’t ask much more than that.”

“No. No, I suppose I can’t,” she says, and this time she snickers; it is a devious, almost sinister sound that has all four of them looking askance at her.

“What?” she asks, flashing them a bright, drunken smile that makes her appear slightly unhinged.

“Aislin,” Dorian says, his voice rife with suspicion, “What are you up to?”

“Nothing at all,” she answers. “I’ve just realized how to end this.”

She pushes out from behind the table past Varric, weaving a little as she makes her way toward the door.

“I do hope that wasn’t Aislin-speak for _I don’t know how to flirt with him so now he must die,_ ” Dorian mutters.

“I’ll follow her,” Varric sighs. “Just to make sure she gets back to the Chantry without stabbing anyone.”

Aislin laughs again as she steps out into the frigid Haven afternoon; even the glaring sunlight makes her laugh.

 _Honorable men are proud men,_ she thinks, _And proud men are weak._

Varric is close behind her. She waits for him, leaning next to the door of the tavern to keep from swaying.

“Not gonna stab anyone, Varric,” she says as he steps outside. “Promise.”

“You’ll pardon me if I’m not inclined to trust you after that bout of maniacal cackling,” he answers. “Come on, Raven. You can grab my shoulder if you start stumbling, but if you’re gonna puke you’re on your own.”

* * *

 

# 2.

The next morning dawns bright and golden, and Aislin - having avoided a hangover by virtue of falling asleep at four o’clock the previous afternoon, which she managed by pleading “feminine troubles” to Josephine - asks Dorian to accompany her down to the training yard where Cullen paces among his recruits.

“If you’re only going to stare at the Templar, I’d really rather not,” he replies, crossing his arms. “He’s certainly pretty, but you know he doesn’t trust me. I’m a mage _and_ a ‘Vint, after all.”

 _“Ir abelas,”_ Aislin says. “I should not have called you that.”

Dorian waves a hand. “Don’t be. It’s nowhere near as insulting as what elves hear every day.”

“No,” Aislin agrees, “But that doesn't mean I should have said it.”

“You were quite drunk,” Dorian says. “Do you intend to carry out whatever scheme had you cackling like a magister?”

“Yes,” she answers simply. “And I thought you might like to watch.”

“Depends. Does the scheme include staring at the Templar?”

“He is not a Templar any longer,” Aislin answers, and wonders when she began defending him. “And no. I have a reason. I think you will not want to miss it.”

Dorian arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

“Shems like Cull - like the _Commander,”_ she says, “They are...proud, are they not?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Dorian agrees, reluctantly. “Aislin, _what_ are you up to?”

She looks up at the sky, squinting into the sunlight. “I will humiliate him.”

She turns and walks away. After a moment or two Dorian follows, hurrying after her.

“Aislin! Damn it, Aislin, _what are you up to?”_

She remains silent. Dorian sighs, but he continues to follow along behind her all the way down to the training grounds.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing,” he mutters, standing beside her near the field tents.

“I do.”

Cullen is barking orders at ragtag recruits, shield-bashing their blows away and knocking them down in the process; Aislin’s resolve wavers.

This man took on a grizzly bear, all alone. He killed it even when Aislin was certain it would kill them both.

She watches him move, parrying clumsy blows and striking out with his sword, his body moving as if in the steps of some strange, foreign dance. She ought to look away, she knows she ought to look away, but it is _exciting_ to watch him.

She is so enthralled by his movements that it takes her far longer than it should to realize that he is not in full armor. Chain mail clinks around his thighs as he moves, circling the terrified young soldier like a predator.

 _Creators,_ but he looks naked without all that plate and fur, she can see his _collarbones._

A pleasurable little chill courses down her spine and that is more than enough to solidify her resolve.

"You do know you're gaping?" Dorian says.

Aislin glares at him, furious that he notices, even more furious that he points it out. She is quite aware that she cannot take her eyes off him. She has been trying to for the past five minutes.

“That is why I’m here,” she mutters. “I intend to make this stop.”

The recruit drives Cullen's advance back at last, grimacing but holding fast as Cullen bears down on his shield, finally throwing the Commander back with a fierce cry that has Cullen laughing.

"Sweet Maker, finally! Thank you, Ronan, that's exactly what I wanted to see," he says, and the recruit smiles, not looking so scared anymore. Aislin has to admire him, his determination to know the recruits by name for as long as he can, to train them all personally if he has to, to make sure they're all as well prepared as they can be.

And then she sees her chance, the means by which she can suggest her little experiment without it sounding strange, without it seeming to come out of nowhere. She strides forward, already flexing her fingers, reviewing what she's seen of his fighting stance in her head even though she can't be sure he'll take the bait.

The recruits notice her first and pause to press a fist to their chest before continuing their exercises, and Cullen looks round, eyes sweeping over the top of Aislin's head, catching Dorian, then sliding down to her.

"Lady Herald!" He says, and Aislin thinks she sees panic in his eyes for a moment but it's gone before she can be sure, replaced by that shell of propriety he wears like he usually wears his armor.

"What can I do for you, my lady?" He asks, sheathing his sword and leaning on the hilt. She wishes he wouldn't do that. It makes him seem cocky; on the heels of that she finds herself wondering if he knows that cocky looks good on him. He probably doesn't. She _also_ wonders if Dorian realizes how many different ways she knows to kill him, because if he grins at her like that in front of Cullen one more time…

"I am impressed with what you've done with the recruits," she says mildly, and that's true, it's very true.

"My thanks," he says, inclining his upper body in a slight bow. "I do my best."

"Indeed," Dorian says, taking up Aislin's ruse without being prompted. "No commanding officer in Tevinter would be likely to recognize the men under him, let alone know their names. It's...admirable of you, Commander."

Cullen - still wary of Dorian, just as Dorian said he would be - bows his thanks.

"They will surely be able to throw off any enemy that comes at them head to head," she remarks, "But I have to wonder, how well would they do against a less...straightforward opponent?"

Cullen rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly annoyed. He shoots a dark look up at the Chantry and says, "If Leliana would agree to let her scouts train with the main troops every once in awhile, perhaps I could tell you. Unfortunately Sister Nightingale keeps her agents close."

"Too bad," Aislin says, and she surveys the recruits for a moment, gauging their aptitude, their youth or age, their nerves. She begins to smirk, bouncing on the balls of her feet, sure of herself, excited.

"I suppose they shall have to make do with me," she says, and before Cullen can so much as stutter she darts into the midst of the recruits, unsheathing her daggers, twirling them into her grip, laughing at the nervous, bewildered expression on Dorian's face.

"Your orders are simple," she says, addressing the green soldiers with a smile on her face. "Hit me."

The soldiers look at Cullen, miserably confused. Aislin expects him to object, to at least attempt to talk her out of it, and for a moment he _does_ look conflicted, but then he props against his sword hilt (insufferable) and fixes the recruits with that steely Commander gaze (even more insufferable).

"You heard her!" he barks. "Do as she says!"

They come at her slowly at first, one at a time, all nerves and awe, and it quickly becomes clear that they have little idea as to how to approach a rogue that doesn't deal in arrows, let alone one who grew up in the forest, hunting every day of her life.

She parries their blows with ease, one dagger twisting away the sword as the other darts out to tap whatever body part is left open; she sidesteps their bashing shields and dances in to land multiple quick taps when they stumble forward.

"She's too fast for you!" Cullen bellows, pacing along the sparring area, his eyes narrow and intense. "She's quick, but what else is she? What advantages do you have? Think, for Andraste's sake!"

They think, Aislin will give them that, but they think of what she's already considered: they outnumber her. There are roughly twelve recruits in the group. She doubts they'll rush her all at once, at least not yet, and she's right about that too.

Two of the older recruits lock eyes with one another and give what she's sure they think is an imperceptible nod. One moves toward her from the front, and Aislin can hear the clink of chain mail behind her, loud and obvious, but she lets them think they have her, facing the first soldier in front of her head on, and when he rushes her, sword raised, she doesn't even have to glance behind her to know the other is doing the same

Humans, human warriors especially...so loud.

She parries the front blow easily, then turns to parry the blow from behind at the last possible second. She flashes the second man a fierce grin before ducking and rolling forward, relishing in the sound of the first recruit's shield smashing into the second's shocked face. They fall over on top of one another, tangled together and embarrassed, and as Aislin reaches in to tap them both in the vulnerable under-arm area with her blades she sees Cullen massaging the bridge of his nose in frustration and Dorian standing a little ways behind him, grinning and shaking his head.

Two down.

When they come at her from three sides (but with the same gimmick as the first two) she dodges instead of parrying. They aren’t expecting that, and while they do manage not to crash into one another, they are sufficiently surprised enough that Aislin can dart in behind one of them without being noticed. She sweeps the man's legs out from under him in one smooth movement, taps his exposed throat with the flat of her dagger, and flits away before either of the other two can get a good eye on her. She's able to pull the same trick on the second man, sweeping him off balance and tapping his throat, but the woman won't fall for it, she sees that immediately.

The woman circles her, thinking; Aislin can _see_ her thinking, can tell she's conserving her strength, refusing to waste energy on blows that she knows Aislin can dodge or parry without a second thought. She's drawing Aislin in, forcing her to move first, and Cullen commends her from the sidelines even as Aislin commends her in her own head.

Aislin fakes hard to the left with her dagger, toward the woman's shield arm. The woman raises her shield and presses forward, but Aislin pulls up at the last moment, taking the softened impact of the shield on her shoulder and using it as a pivot point to dodge the incoming sword blow. She spins behind the woman, sliding the dagger into the narrow seam between helmet and armor. She pulls the blow up short, the point of her dagger barely poking the skin, and when she removes the blade the woman turns to look at her with intense admiration.

Five down.

Four of them come next, but there's a disconnect between the pairs; there are too many of them to communicate effectively, and every time they try to corner her she slips through the cracks like liquid. She keeps it up, dodging and parrying, faking blows to distract their gaze while she escapes their line of sight. They try to follow the previous woman's example and draw her in, but they become impatient when she won't take the bait, just as she knew they would.

She can sense their irritation and frustration, the _Why can't we touch her even between the four of us? This is ridiculous!_ that's written all over their faces, and she keeps drawing it out, keeps parrying blows that become harder and sloppier the longer she eludes them.

"Why won't you stand and fight?!" One of them cries, as Aislin twists away from him for the fifth time. She doesn't hesitate, turning the momentum of her parry into a strike for his side.

The attack takes barely a moment: He covers the first attempt with his shield, blocks the second with his sword, and then Aislin dips her knee and her first dagger sweeps in beneath the shield, catching him straight between the legs and sending him to his knees and then to the ground.

"Because it's over too quickly if I do," she answers, and uses his back as a springboard to launch herself away from the three who try to close in on her, leaving him crumpled in her wake as an obstacle.

One of the last three recruits comes in to take his fallen companion's place. Aislin sweeps the legs from under one of them, and the second to last recruit replaces her; she gets in a quick, feigned backstab under the arm of one woman as she dodges a blow, and the last recruit takes her place.

Eight down.

"Slow down!" Cullen calls out, "She's playing you lot like a harp! Think! Work together!"

The last four soldiers do as they're told, falling back into a semicircle and watching her, shooting one another quick glances, trying to communicate without her understanding, but she sees every movement of their eyes, every quick jerk of their heads, every little message they try to send.

One of them comes at her, full force, slashing and hacking and bashing, and Aislin knows he's intent on occupying her completely, giving the other three a chance to get a blow in, but he can't engage her completely because he can't pin her down, can't find a way to maneuver her so that the other three warriors are at her back and sides, because Aislin knows where they are already. She can hear them, loud as a herd of druffalo, and she slips through their noose every time they try to draw it tight.

She needs them to start going down, though, and she can't take one down head on as she had earlier. They're being careful, they're being controlled, and she's aware that she's done nothing but deflect for the past few minutes. She has to act, has to make them realize they're dealing with someone clever, not a coward.

She maneuvers them about until she has them all in front of her again, and when the lead recruit comes toward her she's ready for him, waiting on the balls of her feet.

He begins to bring his sword down and Aislin lashes out with her leg before he can build too much speed. Her greaves strike the blade, the metal plates and leather absorbing what would otherwise have been a bone-shattering blow, and the sword goes sailing out of the recruit's hand.

Nine down; one by disarmament, eight by contact.

Dorian is laughing, and for a moment she's glad she told him to come. Then she hears him say _Quite flexible, isn't she, Commander?_ and decides that he will die after all.

The last three come for her with all they have, trying to force her to engage, trying to keep both arms occupied, and while they succeed for a few moments, it's never long enough for any of them to land a real blow. She begins blocking weapons with her greaves, too, aware that it looks like she's showing off, but she truly isn't - it's just that they're coming for her harder and faster, and she has use more than just her upper body to fend them off.

One of them stumbles in the dirt, and Aislin is on him like a vulture to carrion. She exploits the momentary weakness by rushing past him, close enough to throw his balance off completely. He goes to a knee and Aislin slides behind him like a shadow, tapping the back of his neck before fading off again

Ten down; nine by contact, one by disarmament.

She's vaguely aware that her heart is beginning to hammer. Sweat begins to trickle from the hollows of her temples, and she decides she needs to end it before her exertion shows.

She falls on the smaller, quicker recruit like a wildcat, forcing him to parry and block and parry and block at her pace instead of his. He trips up within seconds, and Aislin's dagger smacks him gently on the cheek.

Eleven down; ten by contact, one by disarmament.

She and the final recruit circle one another for moment. Aislin lets him think she's afraid to engage while she catches her breath.

It's quiet, and Aislin revels in it. She misses the woods, misses the silent stalking of prey during a hunt, but she doesn't fool herself - this is no hunt, and the time for stalking has passed.

She falls into the fight with determination, glad that she doesn't have to watch her back and flanks but mostly ready to see if her ploy will work as planned. She speeds up her strikes, impressed with his ability to keep up with her despite being bigger and slower than the second to last soldier, but he can't match her forever. She presses him back and back and back until he finally slips up, leaving the spot underneath his sword arm wide open, and the flat of her blade smacks into him almost before he's even realized his mistake.

Aislin twirls her daggers in her fingers and drops them back into their sheathes without comment, waiting, desperately curious to see Cullen's expression (and Dorian's too, in all honesty) but she instead busies herself with her vambraces, tightening straps and making sure buckles are secure. She kneels down to do the same to her greaves, refusing to look expectant, refusing to speak first (and hoping Cullen does).

Cullen _does_ speak first, but he's addressing his men, sounding frustrated and angry but not surprised...not at all surprised.

"Fifteen minutes, twelve dead soldiers..." He says, and from under her lowered lashes Aislin sees him gesture toward her, "And one completely untouched Elvhen rogue."

He shakes his head.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?" He asks. He crosses his arms, staring them down, and they shuffle about like naughty schoolchildren for a moment before one of them - Aislin thinks it was the last man standing - speaks up.

"I mean no disrespect, Commander," he says, giving a slight, nervous bow. "But...could _you_ even hit her?"

He doesn't sound insubordinate, not in the slightest; he sounds genuinely curious, and Aislin stands up at that, catching Dorian's eye across the sparring yard. Her lips quirk ever so slightly and Dorian gives her a look that is one part disapproval and two parts pure glee.

"I'm not the one she challenged," Cullen replies, and Aislin feels it again, that inkling of admiration for him, for the way he parries the question without undermining his authority in the slightest. She wonders if she wants to go through with it, if she really wants to make this man dislike her, and in asking herself that question she makes up her own mind.

Human men are dangerous. Templars are dangerous. Cullen has been both - the former all his life, the latter for the better part of it. She has let the sunlight in his hair distract her from what she knows.

No more.

She takes a deep breath, bounces up on the balls of her feet, and sets her plan in motion.

"Well if that's the case," she says, keeping her voice measured and flat as she unsheathes her daggers, "Hit me, Commander."

Dorian looks positively beside himself, torn between excitement and apprehension. He runs off back toward the rest of Haven, and Aislin wonders if he's going to bring Cassandra down to stop her or Varric down to watch her. Then she clears her mind, focuses her attention on Cullen, and waits to see how long it takes for him to agree. That he _will_ agree, she has no doubt.

He looks at her as if she's lost her mind for a moment or two, and she can tell by the creeping blush in his cheeks that he's either flustered or embarrassed. Either way, he's started out unsure, and Aislin marks that.

"You did just spend a quarter of an hour on your toes," Cullen says, "I'd hate to think you'd given me some unfair advantage, volunteering to spar one on one after you've already tired yourself out. They won't learn a thing that way," he adds, tilting his head toward the recruits (who are beginning to look more and more like children, gathered in the schoolyard to watch a fight).

Aislin shrugs her shoulders. "That? I barely even broke a sweat. Besides, you've been working with them all morning. I'd say we’re fairly even.”

"Well if that's the case," Cullen says, picking up his battered Templar shield and drawing his sword, “I appreciate the opportunity to show them how it's done.”

He's grinning at her now, his initial unease giving way, but it isn't a cocky grin. Of course not; Cullen doesn't do cocky, not consciously. It's the grin of someone who enjoys a challenge, and for a moment Aislin’s conviction fades - can she even make this man hate her? Is it possible?

He bows to her ever so slightly. Aislin, amused as always by his sense of honor and propriety, sketches off a neat little curtsy, spreading imaginary skirts with daggers in hand.

The circling begins. She knows what he's doing because she's doing it too - recalling what she's seen, remembering areas of weakness.

Cullen has few. He is no refugee turned recruit; he's been trained as a warrior since childhood, and he knows what he's doing. He rarely leaves himself open, he knows where to hit, and he hits hard. She's not strong enough to exploit one of his vulnerable points - for example, she can't bash him hard enough to put strain on his knees (he flexes one after every round, rubs it absently). She can't apply enough force to even make his shield shoulder ache, though she's seen him rotating that arm.

The main advantage that she has over Cullen is speed. That, and few qualms about fighting dirty. She supposes she should at least mention that. Cullen is so damn honorable it wouldn't be sporting of her otherwise.

“I hope your recruits aren't under the impression that their enemies will be fighting with your level of honor, Commander,” she says softly.

“I doubt it,” Cullen answers, “But by all means, pull out your bag of tricks, _rogue._ I’m sure I've seen them before.”

He's grinning, teasing, and Aislin can't help but smile back at him.

“We’ll see about that, ser knight,” she counters.

The sparring match begins.

# 3.

After a few minutes of getting familiar with one another’s movements, Cullen risks a blow. Aislin kicks her leg upward, catching the flat of his sword across her greaves...and then she goes down with the force of the blow, losing her balance and toppling backward onto her ass.

The recruits gasp aloud as Aislin scrambles back to her feet, favoring her right leg somewhat. It isn't much, but it's enough that Cullen flinches, guilt overwhelming his features for a moment - he opens his mouth to speak, but Aislin cuts him off.

“Don't you dare, Commander,” she snaps, raising her daggers again as she sets her feet. She cringes a little as she shifts her weight. “They won't learn a thing if you go soft on me now.”

Cullen nods and hefts his shield up again, but he does so with a certain reluctance. He’s shaken. The recruits are shaken too, staring at them both with something like awe.

Just as she had expected, Cullen’s attacks become slower, softer. It's barely noticeable - he may not even realize that he's done it - but he's taking it easier on her nonetheless.

She allows him to drive her back and back, limping as she goes, until finally he brings his sword down and Aislin has to raise both her crossed daggers to block it. The pommels of their weapons clash together and he bears down on her ever so slightly.

Aislin digs both her toes in and half-screams as she puts weight on her right leg, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, and Cullen lets up ever so slightly. She lets out a sob and he eases up even more, barely pushing now.

Aislin opens one eye and smirks.

She pushes forward off her right leg with as much force as she can muster, forcing Cullen back and to the side. He is taken off guard and she manages to throw off both his sword and his balance. Before he can gather himself she sinks into a crouch and sweeps her left leg beneath him in an effort to topple him to the ground.

Cullen, however, catches on. He jumps her leg like a rope and sinks back into a balanced defensive position almost instantly.

Aislin rolls away from him, dodging a blow from his sword. She pops up a short distance away, her daggers held ready, with no trace of a limp.

Cullen glares at her.

Aislin only shrugs.

“You _did_ encourage me to bring out my bag of tricks, ser knight,” she says.

He comes for her hard after that, testing her reflexes to the extreme. She lets him, parrying and dodging and dancing away, praying that he tires before her - and he does, eventually, retreating into a defensive stance behind his shield with sweat-loosened curls flopping across his forehead.

Aislin refuses to look at his hair, refuses to pay attention to the sheen on his arms, and yet she is perfectly attuned to his body, to every breath and movement, to the determination in his eyes. She can't allow herself the distraction of admiration, but it's there nonetheless, quiet in the back of her mind.

She's vaguely aware that they have more spectators now - there are familiar voices nearby, at any rate - but she's too absorbed in Cullen to pay any attention to anything else. He's an excellent opponent, and his skill requires all of her own.

They circle one another again, catching their breath, and Aislin decides that if she is to win this sparring match, Cullen’s shield must go...though how she is to get it off she has precious little idea.

_If I can’t remove it myself, perhaps I can make him do it for me._

She must make the shield a hindrance, then. Its weight slows him down, that's for certain, and makes it more difficult for him to maneuver quickly or with more than the barest agility.

Aislin takes a deep breath. _Oh, Creators. Lets hope I haven’t exhausted myself too much for this._

She gives herself another half minute’s worth of measured breathing before she puts her plan into action.

She charges him almost at full sprint. Cullen brings up his shield and she slows down just enough to use it as a pick, rolling off its immovable surface toward Cullen’s left side. She aims the flat of her dagger for his back. He anticipates her, as she thought he might, and moves to put himself behind her. Aislin twists on the spot, forcing him to face her while he's still moving. She flurries attacks on him, dancing from side to side in order to lunge in around his shield, moving faster than she has yet. He's hard pressed to block everything, though he manages it, and eventually regains a good enough defensive position to deter her from expending any more energy.

Aislin gives herself another thirty seconds to breathe before rushing him again. She fakes hard to the right, drawing a blow, then dodges back left and aims for his side. He follows his missed blow away from hers. Aislin turns and fakes him out again, but once again he moves out of harm’s way, and once again Aislin rushes his right side. This time he brings up his shield instead, anticipating the fake out...but Aislin keeps going right, and he barely manages to block her attack.

She dances around him, until she manages to get behind him. Cullen spins to defend himself, but she makes no attempt at attacking, merely continues moving herself either behind his back or onto his blind spots. She'd have no time to attack, anyway. Cullen is still quick, even with the heavy shield, but her constant movement is beginning to make him nervous.

She slinks back in front of him, holding herself much lower than usual, taking advantage of her narrow build and lack of height to hide just below the line of his shield. It irritates him. She has ensured that all he can see of her are her feet, and her feet aren't holding her daggers. His irritation pleases her; the more frustrated he gets with his shield the better.

She rushes him again, to the left, standing a little straighter. This time when he brings his shield up his eyes are on her face instead of her feet. She makes no effort at a pick-roll. Instead she stops, risking his sword just to kick the bottom of his shield upward.

The edge of it slams hard into his cheekbone. The blows draws no blood, but there is no doubt that a nasty bruise will soon follow. The crowd lets out a collective gasp at this particular trick, and Cullen actually growls as he flings the shield to the side.

“You win that particular battle, _rogue,”_ he says, and Aislin’s heart skips a beat or twelve. His voice is drips sarcasm and danger, and he's grinning at her the way a lion might grin at a lamb thrown into its den, all while the the sun gleams bright in his hair.

“But you have yet to win the war,” he adds, rolling his shield shoulder to accustom himself to his new balance.

“That means you have yet to win as well, Commander,” she reminds him. Aislin is no lamb; she falls on him like a wildcat.

Cullen moves much, much more quickly without his shield. Aislin is a little awed by it - he's so big, well over six feet tall in his boots, with all the muscle of a warrior, yet _he_ moves like a cat as well - a big cat, granted, but a cat nonetheless, and Aislin finally lets up on her attacks. They retreat once again to circling each other.

“You do fight dirty,” Cullen says at length, but he's smiling at her as he speaks - a warm smile, not the near-predatory grin he'd had when he flung away his shield. “I suppose it's a necessary evil. I dare say the recruits are learning a thing or two.”

“No human enemy fights with total honor,” Aislin replies. “Not even you, Commander.”

“I resent that,” Cullen answers evenly. “True though it may be.”

“There is no may,” she says. “Honor would be an evenly matched, evenly balanced field, on even terms. No such thing exists. If I faced you with a sword, I’d lose. If you faced me with daggers -”

“I'd make a fool of myself,” Cullen admits.

“See?” She says. “We are not evenly matched. Who's to say if my skill with these blades bests yours with a sword? They're different skills, measured in different ways - there's no way to balance one against the other.”

“I see your point,” Cullen says, “Though I disagree with your views of honor.”

He presses her forward, and she defends herself, now blocking with her greaves in earnest. The blows hurt, though they're only the flat of the blade, and Aislin knows that there are bruises blooming along her shins.

_It’s only fair. I did possibly break his cheekbone._

It goes on, twice as long as her match against the recruits. They take short breaks, circling one another, discussing honor and complementing one another's skill, and Aislin forgets what she came to do. She forgets her intent to humiliate him in front of everyone, to make him hate her. She forgets that anyone is watching.

She's having _fun._

Cullen is too, by the look of it. He smirks every time he anticipates one of her tricks, laughs when he barely escapes the ones he doesn't. He compliments her agility and her speed. She does the same, adding the tongue-in-cheek qualifier of, “...for a knight,” and making him grin.

Neither of them notice the crowd any longer. They don't hear them or see them, don't realize that their audience has grown to include not only Dorian and the recruits, but Bull, Blackwall, Cassandra, Varric, Sera, Vivienne, Solas, Krem, Leliana, and Josephine, plus several other denizens of Haven, all watching them with raised brows and blatant awe.

Aislin only circles around Cullen, trying to think of a way to best him - not to humiliate him now, but simply to hear him laugh. That he'll laugh she now has no doubt. He's been far too impressed with her thus far to do anything else. If he bested her now, she'd laugh too.

Cullen lunges for her, and they begin their dance again. This time Cullen manages to press her back for real, until their weapons once again clash together in a tangle of pommels and steel.

“I think I may have you,” Cullen says, bearing down on her. “What do you think?”

Aislin grins up at him past the steel of their weapons.

“Not a chance,” she replies, and snatches her daggers out to the sides with a furious cry.

Sparks fly from the grinding blades and Cullen steps back to avoid being sliced. Aislin drops to a crouch again, intent on sweeping his legs while he's still surprised, but Cullen catches her - unfortunately he catches her at the last minute.

He's moving toward her, readying himself to strike downward as Aislin sweeps her leg beneath him. He tries to jump it and trips. Aislin tries to rise, but Cullen’s trajectory startles her and she too loses her balance, toppling backward onto her ass.

There's no time to scramble away. She lays back as he falls, flinching and holding her daggers flat away from her body. Cullen comes down hard on his knees and free hand, just above her. When Aislin realizes that he caught himself, she opens her eyes, and then they both move like lightning.

The flat of Cullen’s sword meets Aislin’s throat just as the flat of her dagger touches his, and there they freeze: Cullen, kneeling over her, propped up on his left arm with his sword held across her throat - Aislin, holding herself up with her right elbow, with her left-hand dagger pressed gently to _his_ throat.

They blink at one another for a moment before their faces begin to break into slow smiles. They remove their weapons, dropping them to the side as their smiles slowly dissolve into a fit of giggling.

“On _that_ note, I hereby call it a draw,” Varric calls out, an obvious undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

Aislin and Cullen both freeze once more, eyes widening.

“Bravo, Aislin,” Dorian says. “You were right, I wouldn't have missed it for the world!”

Aislin closes her eyes.

“I don't think you need my agents after all, Commander,” Leliana says. “It seems the Herald is all you need. I'm sure you can't wait for a rematch.”

Cullen closes his as well. “Maker’s _breath.”_

“Can we take bets next time?” Bull says. “Five gold says she ends up on top.”

“Ten says he likes it that way,” Sera adds.

“You're on,” Bull answers.

“Boss, shut _up_ ,” Krem hisses.

Aislin's eyes fly open and she curses violently in Elvhen under her breath, searching for her discarded daggers in the dirt.

“Language, da’len,” Solas calls out, his laughter fading as he walks away.

Thankfully, Blackwall and Cassandra are talking to the recruits, distracting them from the rest of the comments.

Cullen rises awkwardly to his feet, extending a hand to Aislin as she sheathes her daggers. She takes it - grudgingly - and allows him to pull her to her feet. Vivienne catches her eye, smirks, and walks away. Somehow _that_ is even more enraging than Bull’s comments, and Aislin crouches down, busying herself with adjusting her greaves and vambraces as an excuse to look anywhere but at the dispersing crowd.

Cullen sheaths his sword and begins to run his fingers through his hair, pushing stray curls back into place. His cheeks are burning even beneath the blooming bruise, but Aislin says nothing.

“Uncouth commentary aside,” Cassandra is saying, “Hopefully you see now how difficult it can be to face an opponent that doesn't do battle according to your expectations. I understand that the Herald confounded all of you within fifteen minutes - and you see that even the Commander could only fight her to a draw.”

“There's ways to handle dual-wielding rogues,” Blackwall says. “I know it might be intimidating, what she's done, but take comfort in the fact that I'm older than the Commander, and in all my days, I've never seen one quite as skilled as the Herald - you're unlikely to face anyone at her level.”

“In which case most of the Commander’s tactics likely would have worked,” Cassandra continues, “Though I don't recommend dropping your shield - that was a decision made with both their skill levels in mind.”

“Keep your shields, all of you,” Blackwall agrees. “Think of the Commander and the Herald as professionals - you lot are apprentices…”

“Thank the Maker they stepped in,” Cullen mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns toward Aislin.

She nods briefly. Her face is on fire. She keeps her eyes on the ground and her arms tightly crossed.

“I...apologize for, um...for putting you in such a, ah...compromising position, my lady,” he says, bowing slightly. “I assure you, it will...it will not happen again.”

“It was not your fault,” she says, voice flat. “It was mine.”

She turns on her heel to leave, taking a few steps toward Varric and Dorian; she nearly jumps out of her skin when Cullen’s hand closes over hers.

“Wait,” he says, “Aislin, I just -

Aislin tilts her head at him, trying to pretend like his touch isn't setting her skin to gooseflesh, that the sound of her name in his mouth doesn't have her heart threatening to pound out of her chest.

He takes a deep breath, releases her arm, then looks down at her and says, “I just wanted you to know that was the most fun I've had since I got to Haven. And you're...you're an excellent opponent. Dirty tricks and all.”

Aislin’s mouth outpaces her mind.

“I had fun too,” she says, and then - surprising herself as much as Cullen - she smirks at him, and says, “You are not too bad yourself - for a knight.”

He smiles back at her, laughing nervously, and Aislin forces herself to walk toward Dorian and Varric at a normal pace. She doesn't realize that she's still smiling until Varric speaks.

“I'm glad Sparkler came and got me, because I would hate to have missed this.”

“What?” she asks. “Me getting made a fool of in front of the entire Inquisition, such as it is?”

“No,” he answers, “You actually smiling, Raven. No wonder Curly’s smitten. Though I might have taken Bull’s bet…”

“I am _not_ too tired to stab a dwarf.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **tumblr** : saiyanshewolf  
>  **ko-fi** : saiyanshewolf  
>  **twitter** : queenofsaiyansx


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